"Sasha, what in the hell did you do?" I murmured.
On a scale of zero to ten, my anxiety level was at one hundred.
About a couple of months back, Sasha had texted me a number to call in case anything happened to her. At the time, I thought she was overreacting; now I wasn't so sure. The person who answered gave me explicit instructions. I was supposed to go directly to this individual's home and not stop or speak to anyone. It was imperative I do exactly as she said. I was to monitor my rearview mirror to make sure no one was following me. If I thought I was being tailed, I was to continue driving until I reached a point of safety. When I finally made it to the destination safely, I could never have imagined in a million years what I was stepping into. Sasha could never have prepared me for this, for what awaited me, or for what I would gain in the process. I didn't know whether to scream or to jump for joy. But I did know one thing. My life would never be the same again.
Chapter One
Special
Three Years Later
Jeb leans over and asks, "Special, what are we gonna do about that one?" He gestures toward the corner booth, which holds the imposing figure of an extremely inebriated man. His head rests flat on the table, forehead planted firmly in place, and it's obvious he's not going anywhere, any time soon.
"Aw, fuck. Who kept serving him?" I ask.
"Josie. I think she was hoping … you know." He waggles his thick brows.
"Dammit. I'm gonna have a talk with her. She keeps hoping with every guy who walks in this bar. This isn't a damn whorehouse."
Jeb chuckles. "Yeah, you better talk to her real quick then, 'cause her attire has been leaning more toward hooker than waitress lately."
Running a hand over my sweaty hair, I shake my head in disgust. "The hell. I've been so busy, I honestly haven't noticed. That bad, huh?"
"Spesh, I don't know how she works in those damn shoes she wears. You'd think she was working the strip in Vegas."
"Oh, God." The groan I let out lasts for a minute. I'm frustrated because it's difficult getting good help these days, and I'm working my ass off keeping this bar running. Not that I'm in financial trouble. It's the opposite. Business has been fantastic, and that's the problem. I need good, reliable staff, not the kind that are here to pick up men.
"Maybe you should cut back on the hours you serve food," Jeb suggests.
"You know that's where I make a ton. It's a cash cow. When the customers have too much to drink and need some food to soak up the alcohol, they turn to the late night menu."
"Yeah, but you're running yourself ragged."
"No, shit. That's because I can't seem to find solid help, besides you." I check the time; it's two forty-five in the morning. "Let me finish cleaning up back there," I gesture toward the kitchen, "and then maybe that dumbass will rouse enough so we can order him an Uber or something."
"All right. I'll get the bar taken care of."
When I'm done making the stainless steel in the kitchen gleam, I step back up front. Jeb is standing next to the booth where the dude is passed out.
"Any luck?" I ask, wiping my hands on my apron.
"Nope. But he's not your average poor motherfucker, I can tell you that much."
"What makes you say that?"
Jeb laughs. "Check out his watch."
A brief inspection gives me no hints. "Okay. What about it?"
"It's a Patek Philippe."
"Aside from the fact I can't pronounce it, what, is it like a Rolex or something?"
He laughs again. "Let's say you could probably buy a dozen Rolexes for what he paid for that one."
I shoot a look at Jeb. "And how would you know? You don't even wear a watch."
He shrugs. "I've always had a fascination for them, and the reason I don't wear one is because I can't afford the ones I want to own."
Jeb is older, maybe in his late forties, though I've never asked. When I opened this place a few years ago, he came looking for a job and said he would be my most loyal employee. He's been with me ever since and has lived up to his promise. I've learned a little about him, not a whole lot though, but maybe somewhere in his past he had money. He doesn't have much now, or at least I don't think he does. Jeb is a wealth of knowledge, from trivia to how to change the locks on the doors, and he looks out for me. I still can't believe my luck in finding him.
He interrupts my musing and says, "But that's not the only reason."
"What else?"
He holds something up between his fingers and thumb. "Well, holy cow. Now I do know what that is." It's a black American Express. Imprinted on it is Weston M.C. Wyndham, V. "Yeah, this dude is definitely Mr. Money Bags. Did you check out his name? So what's he doing in a place like this? Not that my place is a dive or anything." And it's not. But it's not what you'd call a high-class club, either.
"Who knows? Maybe he decided to check it out for something different."
"Okay, I'll give you that. But most people have a drink or two. They don't get completely plastered and pass out on the table."
"True. So, what should we do?"
"Did you check him for a wallet or a driver's license?"
"Yep, nothing except the AMEX, a key fob, and a big wad of cash," he says.
Releasing an exhausted sigh, I make a decision. "Take him to my place."
He shakes his head. "Spesh, you can't do that. He isn't a stray cat."
"Right, but I live the closest." In the building next door, in fact. "And what are our other options?"
"It's not safe," Jeb insists.
"Oh, like he's gonna attack me in this state?" I point at the heap of drunkenness.
Jeb chuckles. "Yeah, I guess when you put it like that."
"Besides, I have his black American Express and his watch as collateral. I do know how to take care of myself."
He eyes the guy for a minute. "Oh? How's that? Are you going to use your vast martial arts skills on him?"
"Okay. No use in being sarcastic. I'll pull out my biggest kitchen knife and threaten to kill him."
Jeb cocks his head. "Oh, really? What if he happens to turn that knife on you?"
I hadn't thought of that, but I'm not going to let Jeb know. "Come on. He's not a killer. He's a drunk."
"Just for the record, I'm not a big fan of this idea. Knowing you as I do, I won't talk you out of this though."
"Meh, he'll be fine on my couch."
"We could just leave him in here," Jeb says.
"Not a chance. With my luck, drunk dude will wake up and try to break himself out of here. Then I'll have that expense and mess on my hands."
"Make him pay."
"That's not the point. Who will I get to fix it on a Sunday?"
"Yeah, I didn't think of that. Your landlord would be mad as hell too. What if he wakes up and goes crazy on you in your apartment?"
"I'll lock myself in the bedroom and call 911. Come on. Help me drag his dead ass to my place. I'm tired and need some sleep."
"Okay, but if this goes badly, you call 911, you hear?"
"I'll do worse than that. I'll karate chop the motherfucker in his balls."
Jeb shakes his head. "Such a comedian."
Getting a tall-at least six feet-drunk, and very solid man out of the bar with hardly any help from him is not easy. He does walk, but his legs keep giving out and we have to poke and prod him like we're driving cattle. By the time we get him situated on my couch, I'm worn out.
"Jesus, that was the most difficult workout I've ever done." I wipe my sweaty brow with an arm.
"You and me both," Jeb says. "He has to weigh two twenty. Solid as a rock."
"Help me get his boots off and you can leave." We tug and tug until at last his stocking feet peek out at the end of his jeans. I wheeze from the effort. It's weird that he wears work boots, but I don't mention it to Jeb. "Thanks for the help. You need to get on home. I'll see you on Monday."
Jeb leaves with a warning in his eyes and I nod. "Don't worry. I'll lock my bedroom door and call 911 if I have to." I slide the deadbolt behind him and head to the shower. The bed is yelling my name. As soon as I finish, I throw a blanket on plastered Weston M.C. Wyndham, V, and head to bed. Since the bar is closed on Sunday, I usually sleep as late as I want. I don't move again until the sun is high in the sky and my room is bright.